


Drinks and Small Talk

by ThayerKerbasy



Series: The Misadventures of Growley and Squirrel [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean, Flirting, Innuendo, Karaoke, M/M, Multi, POV Crowley, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?, Pre-Episode: s10e01 Black, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The entire evening thus far had gone exactly as planned, and as a bonus he and Dean had been invited to join three rather attractive gentlemen for drinks.  This addition was not part of the plan, but Crowley was confident in his ability to improvise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinks and Small Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awed_frog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/gifts).



Despite being stuck at a pathetic redneck bar where dreams go to die, Crowley was feeling optimistic. The entire evening thus far had gone exactly as planned, and as a bonus he and Dean had been invited to join three rather attractive gentlemen for drinks. This was not part of the plan, but Crowley was confident in his ability to improvise. He was the King of the Crossroads, King of Hell, and he could certainly handle drinks and small talk.

The plan remained the same, despite the new addition. In fact, the new addition would most certainly be an improvement. The next step, therefore, was to appraise what he had been given. Three young men with dark hair and blue eyes, all wearing jeans and assorted flavours of plaid. Two looked practically identical – mortal eyes would never pick up the slight differences, but he could – while the third seemed intentionally different, with shaggier hair held back by a bandana and a scruffy short beard where the first two had only short stubble. The men were triplets, but one wanted to set himself apart from the other two.

Three smiles welcomed Dean and Crowley while three pairs of eyes shamelessly did their own evaluations. Crowley tossed back the last of his drink and assumed his most naturally charming smile. “Were you boys planning to stare all night?”

One of the matching pair – the slightly less weathered one to his eyes – blushed charmingly. “I apologize if my brothers and I made you feel uncomfortable.” The native North Dakotan accent sounded almost Canadian, his voice somewhere around the higher ranges of baritone. “Think we could make it up to you by, uh, buying you both another drink?”

It was Dean who, beer raised in a drinker's salute, responded, “I can't think of much that ain't solved with more booze.”

Ever the eloquent one, Crowley clarified, “What my friend means to say, gentlemen, is that we would be delighted to join you.”

The other half of the set, still smiling, waved vaguely in the direction of the vacant chairs at the table. “Then by all means, pull up a chair. I'm Clayton, this is my brother Emerson,” indicating the first who had spoken, “and my other brother Steffan,” gesturing to the as yet silent, scruffier man.

Up to this point, Crowley and Dean hadn't bothered with false names. Still, as they claimed two chairs facing the triplets, Crowley glanced at Dean with eyebrows raised questioningly. Dean didn't hesitate to respond, “I'm Dean. This 's Crowley. Do you fellas happen t' have plans for tonight?”

The charmingly blushing one (Emmett?) blushed some more, his clone (Colton?) seemed stunned speechless, his eyebrows attempting to reach his hairline, but the scruffy one (Stanton?) huffed a laugh and smirked. “That depends, hot shot.”

Terms and conditions were Crowley's bread and butter. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table, the corners of his mouth lifting in the calculated hint of a smile. “Depends on what?”

The outdoorsy one (Callahan?) had apparently regained the ability to speak. His fingers traced up and down the handle of his beer mug while he said, “Depends,” the words dragged out of him as if he were considering each carefully before speaking it, “on whether you can handle anything else as well as a pool cue.”

A delightfully wicked smirk spread across Dean's face. “Depends what you want me t' handle. I'm told I'm damn good with my hands.”

Dean's words managed to make the matching pair have matching blushes and Dean didn't bother to conceal his interest. Having followed the conversation with evident interest, the mismatched triplet (Sutton?) caught the waitress' attention long enough to hold up a mug and gesture in a circle around the table. He then locked eyes with Crowley. “So. What kind of a name is Crowley?”

More than accustomed to the question, Crowley set his empty glass on an adjacent table and interlaced his fingers, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. “Does it matter? I suppose if you like you could call me something else. I think I'll call you Sparky.”

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The bartender took a patron's order; a woman bolstered by liquid courage told a bar employee which song she wanted to massacre for karaoke; billiard balls collided in a mediocre break, resulting in one ball being potted in a side pocket; a man told his wife about his annoying co-worker being too loud in the cubicle beside his. Then the brother in the middle (Cameron?) laughed and said, “I like you. Do me next.”

When Crowley let his eyes roam over all he could see of the man, he made sure to be quite obvious about it. A predatory grin crept across his face and he lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “I would love to do you, darling.”

Crowley considered it a personal triumph when all three brothers blushed at the same time. Dean held up both hands and interjected, “Woah! Slow down there, Jack Harkness.”

A quick glance confirmed that nobody else at the table seemed to have a problem with his flirting. Unless... “Problem, sweetheart?”

Predictably, Dean slipped into the cool, casual façade that was his default reaction when changing the subject. “Me? No, but karaoke's about to start and you owe me a song.”

Exactly as he had anticipated. Lowering his arms to his sides, Crowley sat up and turned to properly face Dean. “I suppose I do,” he conceded easily. “Weren't you going to join me though?”

Either the brothers didn't want to do without Dean's company for even a few minutes or it wasn't their first time in the bar for karaoke night. All three of them tried to speak over each other at once. “No, he should stay with us!” “No, no, no, definitely not!” “Wait! Stay here!”

Dean was no idiot, despite anything Crowley might have insinuated. “Somethin' wrong with my singin'?”

While the other two tripped over each other in an attempt to reassure, good old Sparky grinned and shook his head. “Naw,” he said, “but from what I saw, you won and he lost, so Pratchett here should be the one singing. You should get to kick back and watch.”

One of the others (Ellison?) chimed in, “Besides, the beer 'll be here before he's done.”

With a good-natured shrug, Dean relaxed against the back of his chair. “Well, you heard 'em. I can't argue 'gainst that.”

Crowley tightened his lips and briefly held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. You win. I'll go browse song selections while you gentlemen get better acquainted.”

He couldn't help smiling as he walked away. _Pratchett!_ So Sparky was more than just a pretty face. He'd have to watch his tongue around that one. Along those lines, he listened as he walked, filtering out the unimportant background noise to hear one of the men asking Dean about their occupations, with Dean implying that he was a government agent who had accepted early retirement and that Crowley was a stockbroker on vacation. Reluctantly impressed, Crowley began to flip through the list of available songs.

The available songs left much to be desired, though there were a few gems. Turbo Lover by Judas Priest had such deliciously in-your-face subtext it was hard to decline, but the relatively simplistic vocals would leave the crowd bored and heckling soon enough, not to mention the entirely too long guitar solo. He had no intention to dance, and that would be the only way to realistically keep the crowd's attention in a positive way. Back at the table, one of the men was talking about their jobs at the Dakota Gasification Company. Apparently the brothers routinely visited The Black Spur after work.

He almost chose Lady Gaga's Poker Face. It might rile the crowd into throwing things, leading the bar to eject him, possibly resulting in a new and classier establishment. But no, Dean would most likely object to the loss of his beloved rustic dive and decide not to accompany him. Pity, he would have enjoyed singing that one. 

The boys were claiming their beers from the overworked server when he found it. Not so long as to lose the audience's attention but not so short that Dean wouldn't count it, upbeat enough to be interesting but the guitar solo was only a few short bars, and the lyrics... Crowley went over the lyrics in his head, memorized decades ago when he'd heard it live. It was perfect.

He informed the woman in charge of the music of his selection and she told him that he would be the third performer of the evening. He politely thanked her and returned to the table where the oldest of the three (Coleman?) was regaling Dean with tales of his camping exploits involving the underestimating of racoons. Crowley slid into his chair and claimed his mug of what smelled like surprisingly not awful draft beer. A careful sip confirmed its not-awfulness, so he sat, sipped, and listened.

Or at least he intended to quietly listen. Once the horribly unfunny camping story was done and the slightly inebriated laughter had trailed off, the intrepid camper asked, “So? Which song 's it gonna be, Pratchett?”

Which meant, of course, Crowley slowly took a sip of beer, maintaining eye contact with him the entire time. Once he was certain he had the attention of everyone at the table, he let his gaze drift. “Well Bear Grylls,” (Sparky snort-laughed at that) “I will be singing,” he drew out the pause, then chuckled. “What? You didn't think I'd actually tell you, did you? You'll just have to wait.”

There was a table-wide groan and much eye-rolling. Crowley sat back, satisfied with himself, though Dean scoffed, “Yeah right. You're planning on ducking out before your turn, aren't you?”

He had barely assumed an offended expression, hand clasped to his chest, before (Ethan?) jumped to his defense. “Hey, go easy man. He wouldn't bail on us, right?”

“Of course not, my valiant knight.” Crowley didn't even have to lie. “First off, if I were to leave I would be breaking our agreement, and that happens to be against everything I stand for. Second, why the Hell would I leave? Leaving would mean leaving you lot. Why would I want to do that? It wouldn't be because I've agreed to sing in front of a room full of half-drunken hecklers who seem to enjoy throwing things, would it?”

That was when the karaoke jockey announced the first singer, so Crowley's assertions were allowed to stand unchallenged. His rhetorical question made Dean chuckle, though the other three wore more sympathetic expressions.

The first singer was actually a couple performing a duet of The B52's "Love Shack" which went over quite well, though that was to be expected. It was a karaoke staple, a crowd pleaser, and it certainly didn't hurt that the pair sang it half-decently. Their success might have also been attributable to the perky bounciness of the pretty little blonde girl on stage. Interestingly, said perky bounciness seemed to draw the attention of half of the men at his table. Dean was to be expected – given the opportunity, Dean would check out any likely specimen regardless of gender – but Sparky was a bit of a surprise. The other two seemed to have a casual interest in the girl's moderately attractive partner, but for the most part were happily enjoying the music. As Crowley's sexual preferences were not limited by age, gender, species, or physical characteristics of any sort, he cheerfully ogled the bar at large.

The couple left the stage in good spirits, applauded by most of the room, and the server doubling as KJ announced the next act. It was the woman he overheard making her selection earlier and Crowley mentally groaned. She had chosen to perform (ha!) "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler and Crowley knew, before the music had even started, how it would turn out. She was sloshed when she made her selection and had not allowed that state to change in the interim. Crowley leaned forward low to the table – prompting the others to reflexively lean in to listen – and solemnly said, “Buckle up, boys. We're in for one Hell of a bumpy ride.”

Almost as one, Dean and the triplets turned to look at the woman now at the microphone, evaluating her with this new information, and almost as one they groaned. From the first note it was clear the song would be a disaster of epic proportions. The crowd began to grumble and boo before the first chorus was over, and by the time she reached the next the heckling had begun. Dean, in particular, seemed to enjoy having someone worse than him to insult, loudly calling out, “Get off the stage!” and “You suck!”

While everyone was distracted, Crowley surreptitiously grabbed some of the smaller plastic beer cups from the trash telekinetically. He then offered them to Dean with a sly smile. Dean grinned and threw them at the stage, crumpled for better accuracy, with Bear joining in after the first two. When the fourth cup splashed beer dregs in the girl's face, she slurred into the microphone, “Screw you! Y' wouldn' know good singin' 'f it bit yer asses,” and stomped off stage, dropping the microphone on the floor.

The music stopped. Dean and Bear high-fived each other. Sparky and Sir Knight heaved identical sighs of relief. Crowley knew he had only moments before the KJ would announce him, so while the room collectively proclaimed their disbelief over the existence of that magnitude of failure, he stood up and raised his beer mug. “Gentlemen, I have a stage to redeem. Enjoy the show.”

While Bear and Sir Knight were spluttering, “Wait, what?” and “Already?” Sparky warmly called, “Break a leg, Pratchett!”

One corner of Dean's mouth lifted. “Knock 'em dead,” he said. “Though preferably not literally.”

He pretended to consider Dean's words, then shrugged and strode towards the stage, shamelessly cheating and using his powers to warm up his body's vocal cords. The KJ, who had retrieved the microphone from the floor, said, “And next we have Crowley singing "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen!”

In contrast with the rest of the bar, the karaoke stage was sleek, black, modern technology where Crowley immediately felt more at home. He set his beer on the stool meant for singers of slow (boring) songs and claimed the microphone as he passed the KJ on his way towards the middle of the stage. While the opening bars of the song played, he assessed the crowd. Thanks to the previous performer, several of the patrons were ordering refills of their cheap swill. Others were conversing amongst themselves. Few were paying much attention. He intended to change that.

The words began to appear on the screen and he ignored them, singing from memory. He sang in a lower register than the late, great Freddie Mercury because he was well aware of his meatsuit's limitations and had no desire to replicate a teenage boy's vocal problems. He walked the length of the stage as he sang the slower opening verse, making eye contact with as many patrons as possible, casually winking at Dean and the triplets.

When the tempo of the music picked up, Crowley made his way back to the middle of the stage and allowed himself to get lost in the song that he had loved from the moment he had first heard it at the Lyceum Theatre in 1979.

 _I'm a shooting star leaping through the sky_  
_Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity_  
_I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva_  
_I'm gonna go go go_  
_There's no stopping me_

He had always had a soft spot for Queen songs. The perfect words combined with the perfect tune to express how he felt. It was something of a miracle to consider how much those men had accomplished while all in full possession of their souls. Without giving it much thought, Crowley let the music tell him how to move in that understated dance that hardly involved dancing at all, just shoulders and hands and the occasional foot tapping.

Somehow the guitar solo crept up on him. He was _not_ going to dance. Giving the crowd a brief smirk, he stole a quick sip of his beer while Brian May had his moment in the spotlight. Thirty-five years since he had first heard it and it still set his blood on fire. He set his mug back down as the last notes of the solo bled into his vocals and swept him up once more.

 _Oh, I'm burning through the sky yeah_  
_Two hundred degrees_  
_That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit_  
_I'm trav'ling at the speed of light_  
_I wanna make a supersonic man out of you_

He hadn't looked at the crowd at all once the music had sped up, lost in his own performance, but as the song wound down he chanced a glance around the room. Nothing had been thrown. Nobody was talking. People were drinking and drumming on the tables with their hands and smiling and singing along with him. He threw himself into the vocal improvisation at the end, then allowed his last few notes to trail away with the music. There was a beat of silence before the crowd burst into applause. He reclaimed his beer and saluted the crowd with it before leaving the stage.

On his way back to the table, he saw Bear pull out his wallet and toss a few bills on the table. Apparently not content with the tip being left, Sir Knight added another. All three triplets and Dean were standing and pushing their chairs back in. He hadn't paid attention to what was said while he was singing, but it looked like they were getting ready to leave. He reached the group and was about to inquire as to their intentions, but he only managed half a word before Dean slapped him on the back and spoke over top of him. “Dude, you've been holdin' out on me!”

Bear and Sir Knight wore identical grins but Bear was the one to blurt out, “That was awesome!”

Sparky sported a more subdued smile and waited for the other two to finish before adding, “That's one of my favourite songs. You definitely did it justice.”

Well, that was all lovely but still, “Thank you for the kind words, but are we going somewhere?”

Sir Knight somehow managed to blush some more, and Bear drew out a, “Welllll...”

Crowley looked to Dean to explain, but Dean shrugged and indicated Sparky with his chin, who was suddenly shy. Crowley spread his arms in inquiry until Sparky relented. “So. I, uh, have this place. Just outside town. And I, uh, sorta figured you could, um, come over. All of you. For drinks?”

A glance at Dean told him that they'd already had this discussion and Dean was on board. Crowley lifted one eyebrow. “Drinks? You wouldn't happen to stock scotch, would you? Unless by drinks you mean...” He deliberately trailed off.

He managed to make them all blush again, but Sparky's smile turned coy. “Maybe,” he teased. “You certainly handle a microphone better than you do a pool cue.”

God help him, Crowley had three willing triplets and Dean Winchester grinning like an idiot and he was bloody well going to make the most of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for waiting so patiently. This one didn't come quite so easily as the first, but it was worth it. Thank you to everyone who cheered me on and a special thank you to poD7et for beta reading this for me.
> 
> I highly recommend giving Crowley's karaoke selection a listen if you've never heard it before (or even if you have). It's one of my favourite songs and it just seemed to fit perfectly.
> 
> If you catch the reason for the nickname Sparky gives Crowley, you have awesome literary taste.
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed this. I love to hear from my readers.


End file.
